A Home Away From Home

Morning in the Carnival began not with trumpets or fanfare, but with quiet rituals and soft, well-worn rhythms.

The scent of strong coffee and spiced tea drifted through the air as campfires crackled to life. Performers stretched sleep from their limbs with yawns and gentle exercises; some rehearsed silently, going through motions with practiced grace. Somewhere, a fiddler played a lazy tune, just for themselves. Painted wagons creaked open as costumers aired out silks and sequins, while a pair of acrobats argued fondly over breakfast rations.

Everyone had their roles, their rhythms.

Rainer had his too—but that morning, his gaze lingered on the horizon. He was halfway through his second cup of tea when he noticed the shape of the hills—those gentle, sweeping rises like waves frozen mid-crest. Then the stand of trees near the creek. The way the wind carried the scent of elderflower and damp earth. It stirred something in him, a tug in his chest that felt like memory.

After asking around the Carnival grounds, he got his answer. They were camped just a few miles from Varithne.

So, on a quiet morning, with no patrols to perform and the sky clear above, Rainer set off down the Nebula Road on foot.

The walk was long but easy, the road winding through meadows scattered with wildflowers. The land was just as he remembered it—rugged, but deceptively gentle in the daylight. Sunlight spilled across the hills, painting the grasses gold and green. Birds trilled from unseen branches, and the breeze danced around him, tugging at his cloak like an old friend welcoming him back.

The village had changed little. A ribbon of smoke curled from the handful of chimneys. Fences leaned in the same tired, stubborn way. The roofs wore a patchwork of moss and lichen, and the ancient trees stood like old sentinels. A few distant figures moved slowly across the fields—farmers and herders beginning their day. Peace hung in the air like a blanket, undisturbed by time.

The path to Aynruth’s cottage was overgrown, but the stone fence still stood. The small house was just as he remembered—weathered timber, a slanted roof, and an herb garden that had taken on a life of its own. A battered hat rested on a fence post. The door stood ajar, as if still waiting for someone to return.

Then the barking began.

From around the side of the house barreled a graying hound—bigger, older, but unmistakably Maggie. She slowed as she neared, tail wagging furiously, sniffing with disbelief before lunging forward in joyful recognition. Rainer knelt, arms open, laughing as she bowled into him, whining and snuffling his face.

“Ain’t no mistakin’ that racket.”

The voice was older now, raspier, but familiar. Aynruth stood in the doorway, leaning on a cane. His beard had gone entirely white, and his back bent more than before, but the eyes—sharp and kind—had not changed.

“Well, I’ll be,” he said, stepping forward with a slow, measured gait. “Didn’t reckon I’d see the day again. Maggie never gave up, you know. Still watched the road every morning.”

Rainer rose, heart full. “I didn’t forget. I just—got lost.”

Aynruth nodded, his smile faint but warm. “That’s the way of it, sometimes. But you’re found again, and that’s what counts.”

He opened his arms, and the dragonborn stepped into a quiet, weathered embrace.

Inside, the cottage smelled of thyme, woodsmoke, and old memories.

Aynruth shuffled ahead, gesturing for Rainer to close the door behind him. The walls were lined with shelves cluttered in that way only the homes of the long-lived are—jars of dried herbs, carved wooden figures, bits of antler and stone, a bird’s nest tucked safely in a woven basket. A thick quilt lay folded on a rocking chair near the hearth, where embers still glowed from the morning fire.

“Sit yourself down,” Aynruth said, motioning toward the rough-hewn table. Maggie followed Rainer closely, then flopped to the floor beside his chair with a long, satisfied sigh.

The old farmer filled a kettle and set it on the iron hook over the fire. “Still got some of that plum-leaf tea you liked. Not much left now, but no better day to use it.”

Rainer looked around, overwhelmed not by grandeur but by how right it all felt. He hadn’t realized how much of the Carnival carried the feeling of drifting, always moving. But here, in this modest home with creaky floorboards and the steady rhythm of a kettle coming to boil, there was stillness.

Aynruth eased himself into the opposite chair with a grunt. “You look older. Not in years. In weight.” He didn’t ask where Rainer had been. He didn’t need to.

“I’ve seen things,” Rainer said softly. “Done things. Lost some, helped others. I kept thinking I’d come back, but… the Mists don’t let go so easily.”

The kettle whistled.

They shared the tea in mismatched mugs. It was strong, earthy, with a hint of fruit and woodsmoke. Outside the window, bees hummed through wild marjoram, and the trees whispered gently to one another.

“You still don’t remember where you came from?” Aynruth asked, not unkindly.

Rainer shook his head. “Only fragments. But I remembered this place. I remembered you and Maggie.”

Aynruth chuckled. “Well, that’s more than most get in this land. Folk pass through, and the Mists eat their names.”

They sat in companionable silence, save for the occasional clink of ceramic or the soft groan of the rocking chair as Aynruth leaned back. Maggie snored at Rainer’s feet, her tail thumping now and then, dreaming of younger days.

After a long moment, Rainer asked, “And the village? Anything new in Varithne?”

Aynruth gave a small grunt, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “Some things shift, sure. Most don’t.”

He set his cup down and glanced toward the window, eyes distant.

“Old Ilya passed on in the winter—fell asleep by the stove and didn’t wake up. She was ready, I think. Her boy took over the goats. He’s not as good with them, but he’s learning. The Maelor twins married—each other, somehow, after all that fuss with the Duskwood girl. And young Enid? She’s running letters between Neblus and Viaki now. Says the road don’t scare her, and I believe it.”

He paused, smiling faintly.

“Storm last spring knocked out half the orchard. Folks pitched in, got most of the trees standing again.”

“And you?” Rainer asked. “How are you holding up?”

Aynruth chuckled. “Old bones creak more than they used to. But I’ve got tea, a roof, and a hound who still thinks she’s a pup. I reckon I’ve got what I need. Hey but enough about me. Let’s hitch up the cart and roll into town. I’ve got some errands to run, and I’m sure lots of folks would be happy to see ya again.

Aynruth’s cart had seen better centuries. Its wheels creaked like haunted floorboards, the bench sagged like a guilty conscience, and every bump in the road played a new note in its ongoing symphony of groans. But it held together, barely, and Maggie trotted proudly alongside like she was leading a parade.

They’d set out that morning with a simple goal: a quiet arrival, maybe a surprise or two. Aynruth had even brought along a dusty pie tin with vague plans of stopping by the baker for some “proper welcome-back sweets.” The old man seemed delighted by the idea of just showing up, Rainer in tow, and watching jaws drop.

“You’ll see,” he said, flicking the reins gently. “Folk’ll get all misty-eyed. Someone might faint. Maybe old Bertom. He’s overdue for a good faint.”

Rainer chuckled, leaning back with arms folded and a smile tugging at the edge of his snout. “Do you usually orchestrate your errands like theatre?”

“You’ve been gone too long,” Aynruth replied. “Everything’s theatre. Just some of it involves more goats.”

They crested the final hill—and all hopes of a quiet entrance dissolved immediately.

A chicken flew past.

Literally flew. It flapped hard, flailed harder, and smacked into Aynruth’s hat, knocking it sideways. Another followed, careening out of the schoolhouse window with a trail of chalk dust and squawking fury.

The village square lay below them in full, chaotic bloom: turnips were rolling loose down the main lane like escaped convicts and Tillo was wielding a rake in a standoff with the forge goose.

“Did we miss a festival?” Rainer asked.

“Nope,” Aynruth muttered, straightening his hat. “This is just a Tuesday.”

They rolled in unnoticed at first, weaving slowly between barrels and confused livestock. Maggie barked once, then peeled off to enthusiastically greet a pair of sheep who promptly scattered in different directions.

Aynruth brought the cart to a stop beside the well. “Well. So much for the big surprise,” he muttered.

He climbed down with more of a dignified scoot than a dismount.

Rainer followed, only to step on a rogue turnip, yelp, and land flat on his back with a thud.

Enid was chasing down chickens when she came upon Rainer.

“Oh!” She shouted as she skidded to a halt. “I—wait, Rainer?!”

“Hi Enid.” Rainer said, brushing feathers and dirt from his cloak.

“Hey! Look! Rainer’s back!” Enid shouted.

Gasps followed. Then cheers. Then a brief interruption as the forge goose attempted to bite Rainer’s tail in protest of his celebrity status.

Mayor Bram appeared beside him looking like a man deeply betrayed by both turnips and poultry.

“Turnips got out,” Bram said grimly. “Chickens got into the griddle flour. Goose staged a coup.”

“I don’t know how to help with half of that.” Rainer admitted.

“You’re tall. You’ve got arms. “You’ll figure it out.”

Before Rainer could argue, Bram shoved a shovel into his hands and pointed dramatically toward a bale of hay that had caught fire for no apparent reason.

“Hero work. Go.”

Like a summoned spirit of scandal, Ms. Orla the village gossip appeared beside them, her shawl flapping.

“Oh, thank the stars!” she said. “The village is in complete anarchy. The turnip wagon flipped over, the goats breached the market, the Maelor twins honeymoon cow is missing, and the forge goose bit Bertom so hard he fainted into a butter churn.”

“What exactly is happening?” Rainer said, dropping the shovel to catch a wayward chicken midair.

Mayor Bram waved a dismissive hand. “You don’t have time for the details. You’re about to be incredibly useful.”

“Oh! That would be convenient for you wouldn’t it Mr. Mayor?!” Ms. Orla said with her hands on her hips. “I’ll have you know that earlier this morning, Mayor Bram decided to move the annual Plowman’s Market from the meadow to the village square ‘for convenience’ without any unified plan or proper supervision.”

“There was proper supervision!” Mayor Bran protested. “I left the Maelor twins in charge!”

“I’ve proven my point.” Ms. Orla said with a self-satisfied smirk. The Maelor twins are many things: loud, enthusiastic, inexplicably barefoot at all times; but planners, they are not.

To make matters worse, one of the twins, it was unclear which, and they aren’t telling, had used the wrong feed barrel, and given the livestock a potent mix of fermented beet mash meant for a festival brew.”

Rainer furrowed his brow.

“Don’t try to logic it,” Aynruth grunted. “This is Varithne.”

Mayor Bram continued. “What I’m saying is, we could use a hand. And wouldn’t you know it, here you are—big, scaly, strong, and probably better at wrangling goats than young Joran, who can’t even spell ‘goat’ half the time.”

Rainer laughed, a full, warm sound that echoed in the streets. “I come back for a quiet visit and get conscripted into goat duty.”

“That’s how we say ‘welcome back’ around here,” Aynruth said.

The village square looked like it had survived a mild siege. Turnip greens were scattered across the ground like the aftermath of a vegetable riot. And there, standing on top of the overturned wagon like a queen surveying her kingdom, was Judith.

She was a massive, one-eyed goat with an impressive beard and the air of a creature who had never lost an argument; and wasn’t about to start now.

“She remembers you,” Aynruth muttered as he and Rainer approached. “Or maybe she just hates everyone equally. Hard to say.”

Judith’s single eye narrowed. Her nostrils flared.

Rainer squinted back at her. “She’s glaring at me.”

“She glares at everyone.”

“No, I mean specifically me.”

“Then she remembers you.”

Judith snorted. A turnip fell from her mouth.

Aynruth handed Rainer a coil of twine, a burlap sack of feed pellets, and a small wooden bucket. “Go show her who’s boss.”

“How exactly do I do—”

Judith chose that moment to leap off the wagon and charge.

What followed was less ‘goat wrangling’ and more ‘improvised gladiatorial performance.’

Rainer ducked behind a barrel, narrowly avoiding a horn to the kneecap. Judith circled like a predator, cloven hooves thudding ominously on the dirt road. He made the mistake of locking eyes with her again—challenge accepted, apparently—and was promptly chased halfway around the village.

“She’s faster than she looks!” Rainer yelled as he hurdled a watering trough.

“She does daily laps!” Aynruth hollered back. “It’s her hobby!”

Judith lunged. Rainer grabbed a feed bucket and tossed the pellets in a high arc. They scattered across the ground in a satisfying rattle, and—for a moment—Judith hesitated. Her ears twitched. Her tail gave a thoughtful flick. Then she trotted over to inspect the offering.

Rainer took the opportunity to dive forward, catching her around the middle with a kind of desperate dignity and wrapping the twine loosely around her midsection like a very angry holiday roast.

Judith let out an offended bleat, flopped dramatically to her side, and began chewing on her own restraint.

“Victory!” Rainer declared, panting as he sat in the dirt beside her.

Aynruth gave an approving nod from the fence post he was hammering back into place. “Not bad. You only got headbutted once.”

“Twice,” Rainer corrected, rubbing his ribs.

Judith gave a smug little bleat, as if keeping score.

By midday, his cloak was covered in feathers, his arms scratched from brambles, and his dignity bruised slightly from the duel with Judith. But Varithne looked better: the chickens were mostly corralled, the turnips saved, the fences patched, and only two villagers had fallen into the well—both voluntarily, as part of a debate about whether it echoed more in the afternoon.

“They do this every week?” Rainer asked, collapsing onto a hay bale beside Aynruth, who was picking straw out of his beard.

“Not quite,” the old man replied. “Sometimes it’s the sheep.”

From the field came a distant baa followed by a loud splash.

Aynruth didn’t flinch. “Yup. The sheep now.”

Rainer laughed, the sound full and surprised, his heart light. The Carnival had its wonder, its glitter and mystery—but here, there was a kind of magic too. Mud-stained, ridiculous, slightly damp magic.

He looked around the village smiling through the dirt and feathers, at Enid handing out apple slices, at Ms. Orla holding court with some of the other village wives, at the way the sunlight hit the mossy rooftops, at the chaos wrapped in humble pastoral charm and thought, Yeah. This feels like coming home.